


chalk and cheese

by soapyconnor



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Road Trip (Kind Of), heart to heart moments?, i really dont know how to describe it cos i dont wanna spoil ti dkfjgh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21948787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapyconnor/pseuds/soapyconnor
Summary: arthur and john go on a trip.rdr2 secret santa 2019.
Kudos: 13





	chalk and cheese

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this was my secret santa gift to requindesbois on twitter :) im sorry if its not exactly what you expected @requindesbois, but i hope you end up enjoying it <3 merry early christmas! also, john is young, late teens, which is why there's kind of a? separation between the two of them? because neither of them really know how to handle it.

The pillow hit John directly in the back of the head. It skidded off and came to rest near the edge of John’s tent, landing where his clothes were piled up. John raised his head slowly, blinking tiredly and rubbing at the back of his head as he slowly sat up. He looked towards the entrance of the tent, scrunching up his nose as the sun bled around Arthur’s figure. He let out a small groan, and flopped down against the ground, rubbing his palms against his eyes. “Jesus, Arthur—”

“Get up.”

John snorted, and rolled back onto his stomach, folding his forearms and resting his cheek against them. He let out a yelp as his blanket was abruptly ripped off of him, leaving him only in his union suit. “Jesus!” he shouted again, grabbing his coat off of the floor. “The hell’s wrong with you, Arthur?”

The older man rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms, tucking the blanket into the crook of his elbow. “Quit your complainin’, and get up. We’ve got shit to do.” Arthur tossed the blanket back at him. “If you ain’t ready in five minutes . . .”

John waved a hand at him, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders before he picked his trousers off of the floor. As he shimmied into his trousers, he shot a glance towards the tent flaps, only to see Arthur had disappeared. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he yanked the tent flaps shut and turned on heel. The early morning chill had seeped into the tent, cutting out any sense of warmth from it. If Arthur hadn’t hung out at the entrance so long, John probably could have rolled over and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the cot had grown cold, and he loathed the idea of crawling back into it.

He slid his arm into his coat as he left his tent, making sure to secure the flaps before he went to find Arthur. Dutch and Hosea were still asleep—the only other person dumb enough to be wandering around in the cold seemed to be Miss Grimshaw. She was crouched by the fire, a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked awfully disgruntled, and John immediately turned away from her, heading towards where the horses were lazily grazing. He really didn’t need her biting his head off this early.

Arthur was leaning against the hitching post next to Boadicea. He raised his gaze, glancing at him briefly before he let out a snort and ducked his gaze beneath the brim of his hat. “All ready to go, sunshine?”

He tensed upon hearing the nickname. John was eighteen now, and the same height as Arthur, though he had failed to catch up weight wise. It felt weird to look the man in the eyes and be called such a . . . supercilious nickname. Deciding to ignore it, John asked, “Where the hell we goin’ anyways, Arthur?”

Arthur removed the rifle he had shouldered, and handed it over to John. The younger took it, and looked it over, before glancing down the barrel. The rifle felt heavy in his hands, and the only other time he’d seen this specific rifle, it was on Hosea’s horse.

“We’re going hunting?”

Arthur arched his eyebrow. “Why you actin’ so surprised?” He only gave the man a moment of contemplation, before he added, “You suck at hunting. Tired of sending you out to hunt, and you comin’ back with rabbits full of buckshot.”

John glared at him, and he grumbled a bit. Arthur’s eyes softened, and he clasped John on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, kid,” he said, turning towards Boadicea. “Ain’t your fault no one ain’t ever taught you how to hunt the right way.”

John watched as he mounted the Missouri Fox Trotter, and he flexed his hands along the rifle, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Arthur turned to him, as Bo whinnied and jerked her head. “So.” He tried to begin, but the words seemed to get caught up in his throat. As Arthur pulled Bo away from the hitching post, John caught sight of Pumpkin Seed, all tacked up and ready to go. His tongue felt thick, as if he had swallowed a mouthful of bees. His eyes traveled back to Arthur, trying to sense if this was any sort of joke. It was only recently that Arthur had begun to ask John to come on jobs with him, or was shown any sort of attention. Before, Arthur rarely spoke to him, and John always saw himself as a burden. Of course, Arthur made sure he was fed and had clothes on his back, but John always felt that the older man would prefer if it was just him, Dutch, and Hosea again. “You’re going to teach me.”

“Someone’s got to,” Arthur said, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. The smoke curled around the corner of his lips and billowed upwards, disappearing into the cold morning air. “What ya gonna do if something ever happens to us? Starve t’ death?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen t’ any of ya.” He didn’t realize how hard he was grasping the rifle till he felt pain shoot up through his hands. He shouldered it, and climbed up onto Pumpkin Seed. “But. Sure. Whatever.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow, and shrugged. “All right. Come on.” He called over his shoulder to Miss Grimshaw, “Don’t expect us t’ be back for a couple of days.” Miss Grimshaw did not reply, and John gripped tightly at the reigns as they rode out of camp.

“The hell are we, Arthur?” John called, tugging his scarf up over his face as Pumpkin Seed struggled to get through the snow. They had been riding for hours, only stopping momentarily to eat and let their horses rest. The snow had gotten deeper and deeper as they rode, but Arthur seemed nonplussed. When Arthur failed to reply, John let out a nervous laugh, “Plannin’ on killing me or somethin’?”

Boadicea slowed, dropping next to the silver-tail buckskin Standardbred, so close that their rider’s calves brushed. John jerked, and Pumpkin Seed whickered as she stumbled to the right. John stared at Arthur hard, trying to gauge the man’s reaction that was hidden behind the scarf. There was a crinkle around the older man’s eyes. “If I were t’ kill you, I would a done it a long time ago. Not now, when I actually care about ya.”

John shoved Arthur, and urged Pumpkin Seed further. “It ain’t nice to tell lies, Mister Morgan.”

Boadicea easily caught up, and John shot a glare at Arthur. “It ain’t a lie, Marston,” Arthur snorted, “Why’re you so eager t’ believe I don’t like you?”

“You never paid attention to me before. Now, all a sudden, I’m eighteen and you’ve taken an interest.” The cold bit through his gloves, and John hunched in on himself. They’d been riding for _hours_ , and he wasn’t quite sure where they were heading. He thought back to earlier that morning—Arthur had told Grimshaw they wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. Were they heading out of state? All for hunting?

Arthur sighed, scratching at his cheek. “Look, John,” he began, reaching over to slow Pumpkin Seed down. “I know I ain’t been the nicest towards ya since you’ve joined us, but I was doin’ it to protect you. After you stole my horse and went after Hosea when he was gone for a couple of hours, none of us were quite sure what you were going to do. I thought it’d be safe if you didn’t get too attached. As I’m sure you’ve realized—”

“—I get it.” John picked at the dry and peeling skin along his lips. “I do.” He glanced at the older man, and they slowly began to make their way up the mountain again. “Still don’t explain why ya decided to take me along with you on this hunting trip.”

“Hosea’s given me a map,” Arthur explained, pulling said map out of his satchel and passing it to John. “There’s apparently some pretty big, impressive game out here. Figured it’d be smart if I brought someone along with . . . Not t’ mention the game is gonna go for some big money.” John raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that look—you need the money. Ain’t quite sure when Dutch’s gonna let you go on jobs . . .” Arthur shot him a sideways glance. “Unless ya want to continue to mooch off of us?”

John’s face flushed and he fiddled with his scarf. “No thank you,” he muttered. “I get your point.” The ride went back to being relatively silent—the only noise being that of the whinnying horses and their riders’ hushed murmurs to them. Only once they had descended down the other side did someone speak.

“Let’s take another rest,” Arthur said, stopping near a lake. He dismounted and removed Boadicea’s saddle, resting it against a rock. John hesitated, before doing the same thing to Pumpkin Seed, stroking her down as she leaned over and lazily chewed at his hair. He pushed her head away, a small smile threatening to creep onto his lips. By the time he pushed away from his horse, he saw Arthur sitting on a rock on the shore, feet dangling over the edge and had already cast out a line.

John shoved his hands into his pockets, and approached Arthur, standing next to him. Arthur shot him a look, before he gently elbowed him. “Gonna make me catch us lunch? Go get your rode, boy. I know Hosea gave you one.”

Shifting from foot to foot, John scowled. “I ain’t a good fisherman.”

“Neither am I, but here I am.” Arthur jerked the rod, and muttered a, “Got ya,” before he began to fight the fish. John watched him struggle against the fish for a while, before he let out a sigh and headed back to his horse. By the time he returned with his fishing rod, Arthur had already reeled it in.

John sat down on a stump, and cast out while Arthur analyzed his catch. There was a loud splash, and the fish was returned to the lake. For a moment, they sat there in silence, before Arthur spoke up, “I don’t mean to be so harsh on ya, kid.”

A shrug, and then nothing. “I get it—I was an annoying kid.”

Arthur scowled. “You weren’t annoying. ‘Sides, that’s the nature of children . . .” He paused, rubbing a hand along his thigh for a brief moment. “I know you have grown up in this, this is normal to you, but I . . . I don’t know. This ain’t some game. When we do these jobs, we risk our lives.” He paused, briefly. “You’re young. You could go out, and work for someone on their farm. There’s plenty that you can go and do . . . Just cause it’s what _we_ do don’t mean this has to be the life for you.”

John mulled over the thought, and missed the tugging on the front end of his rod. He scowled as the fish got away, and decided to recast his line. “Don’t think I’d be able to do much else,” John murmured in turn. “You know me. I’m dumb, and too angry for most people.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be someone out there that’ll take in your dumbass. It may do you some good.”

John shot him a sideways glance. “Is this why you decided to bring me out on a huntin’ trip? To try and get me to bolt like a coward?”

“No.” Arthur reeled in another fish. This one he seemed to like, and he wrapped it up before he placed it on the ground next to him. “I’m trying to make you see that you can be _more_ than what we are.” Arthur tilted his head up towards the sky, watching the clouds more than he was watching the fish. “This life drains on you. Anything ya want to do in life . . . your past is gonna follow you.”

John allowed himself to contemplate this. He didn’t know specifics—the others made sure to keep him away from stuff like that—but there had been something that had happened to Arthur. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he knew he didn’t want to ask—he could practically see Arthur tensing up at even the mention of whatever it was. Arthur had disappeared for a while, which wasn’t _strange_ , but considering the circumstances, it’s always stuck with John. John dug his heels into the dirt. “I’m not you, Arthur.”

This time, it was Arthur’s turn to pause. “No,” he finally said after a while, “You’re right.” John let out a sharp curse as he attempted to snag the fish that had been tugging down on the line, but he just came up empty. Arthur arched an eyebrow at the display, before he said. “There’s gotta be _something_ that ya like. Something that ya want to pursue.”

“Not fishing,” John said, crinkling his nose as he reeled in and replaced the bait. That earned a small chuckle from Arthur, and John’s face flushed at the sound.

“Can’t argue with you there.” The older man paused. “But there’s gotta be _something_.”

John hummed, and pinched the rod between his thighs so he could scratch at his neck. “I dunno . . . I guess . . . ah . . .” His nails scratched painfully against the rough skin. He scrunched up his face. It was . . . surprisingly hard to do.

He felt Arthur’s gaze on him, and he _refused_ to look over. To look over and see the pitying look . . . Finally, he dragged something up out of the depths of himself. “. . . I like gardening, I guess.” He froze as he realized that that sounded . . . well . . . He chewed on his bottom lip. “It’s just—I just—”

“You don’t have to explain to me why ya like something, John.” Those words lifted a weight off of John, and he crossed his legs at the ankle. He could hear Dutch laughing at him now, or Hosea’s eyebrow raised questioningly. “What’s interesting about gardening to you?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Just . . . it’s something permanent, I guess. If ya have a garden, I mean.” He licked his lips. “I guess wood workings . . . interesting?” Arthur nodded, as if he had no arguments. “I dunno. Just something about it . . . ‘bout both of those, just means something permanent.”

Arthur nodded again. “I get that . . . You could always leave, an’ go build yourself a homestead.” He jerked the rod, but received nothing in turn. Arthur let out a sharp sigh before he reeled his rod back in, lighting a cigarette once it was put away.

“Who’s gonna want to give a loan to an eighteen-year-old?” John snorted. “Not t’ mention, you know how Dutch thinks about that stuff.”

“It don’t matter what _Dutch_ thinks, kid.” The sigh that escaped him really sounded like he was tired of hearing about Dutch. John frowned. For a man who seemed to admire Dutch as much as Arthur did, he was wanting John to think for himself an awful lot . . .

“. . . Is this a test?”

“No, John, it ain’t.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose once more.

John licked his lips. “Look, sorry, I know I’m . . . not the brightest, but I just . . . don’t get why you’re askin’ me all these questions. First ya tell me we’re goin’ hunting, but don’t give me anything more to go off of, then you’re askin’ me these questions and I . . .” His eyebrows furrowed together. “Did I do something wrong?”

Arthur rolled his tongue between his teeth, and sighed. “No. You didn’t. Let’s just . . . go cook these fish an’ be on our way.” Arthur rose to his feet and picked up his catches, heading back to where the horses were lazily grazing. John watched him go, before he turned back to his rod, hunching his shoulders. Despite the conversation not going that way, why did he feel so berated?

They did not speak again until they reached the town that night. Banshee was a small town with an even smaller tolerance for outsiders. Within ten minutes of stepping into the town, they had been accosted by the folk, and were asked how long they exactly planned to be in their town, and what they were planning on doing. Why Arthur decided to stop in a town like this, John will never know. But Arthur had taken one look at their dirty, slightly torn map and just nodded to the townsfolk, tellin’ them that they were after some big game and wouldn’t cause any trouble.

They were not convinced. John didn’t blame them. He, too, would take one look at him and Arthur, and tell them to get lost.

John slumped down onto his bed, tugging off his boots. Arthur was gone at the moment—apparently decided it was time for a bath. John flopped down against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Banshee was fucking weird—what hotel had two separate beds? In _one_ room? John glanced at the other bed, before giving a shrug. It was weird, but they had been allowed to get a room, so what did it matter?

He shot up when the door opened, and whacked his knee on the bedside table. Arthur stood in the door way with an arched eyebrow. “Having issues there, Johnny?” he said with a small grin. His hair had been cut, the sides shaved and the top pomaded back. He had gotten a shave, too—the only thing remaining of his once thick beard was a thin layer of scruff.

John cupped his knee, rocking a bit. “God, Morgan, ya didn’t have to bust in like that—what if I had been indecent?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, tossing his old clothes onto the floor. “Not like I ain’t seen you indecent before. You remember I used to have to bathe you, right?” John’s face flushed. He remembered being manhandled towards a lake, and he screamed and kicked the whole way there. Looking back, it was a rather stupid thing to do. But at the time, when he had been forced near the water and manhandled into it, his mind had just screamed at him to get free.

He wondered if Arthur still had those teeth marks?

Arthur paused, then shook his head. “Enough ‘bout that. Ya want to go get something to drink?”

John arched an eyebrow. “You payin’?”

“Course I’m paying!” Arthur waved a hand. “C’mon, now. Put your boots on.” John wanted to grumble, _mumble_ something about how they had been riding all day, but he bit down any sort of protest he could make. He shoved his feet inside his boots again, and followed him downstairs.

The saloon was rather empty for how late it was. John frowned, and wondered what kind of backwards town they had stumbled into. The bartender gave them a look as they sat down. “What can I get for you boys?” he murmured, and blinked a couple of times, as if he was surprised.

“Got whiskey?”

“Beers ‘bout all I got,” the man replied, sliding a bottle across the counter. “Whiskey was all gone on Monday.”

“It’s Friday,” John said, eyebrows furrowing together. “Couldn’t you have had someone go to ‘nother town?”

The bartender gave him a blank look. “Take the beer or leave it.”

Arthur snapped his hand out to grab John by the bicep. “It’s fine.” Wrapping his hand around the bottle, John stared down at it and popped the cap off before he took a quick swig. Arthur followed suit, and let out a small little laugh. “Y’know,” he said, “Last time I was here, it was with Hosea.”

John shot him a look. “When was you and Hosea here?”

“It was ‘fore we found you,” Arthur replied, “Couple o’ months before, I reckon. Kind of like you, I wasn’t such a good hunter. Hosea fought t’ fix that.”

“ _You_ , Arthur Morgan? A bad hunter?”

Arthur laughed. “Yeah, me. Look, kid, it doesn’t just _magically_ happen. It’s skill and practice, something that both Dutch _and_ Hosea have failed you on—”

“Well,” John cleared his throat. “They were both . . . kind of . . . distracted?”

Arthur’s jaw snapped shut, his eyes traveling to the ceiling as if he was mulling over it. “. . . Yeah. I suppose so.” He scratched at the bottom of his chin. “Don’t really matter though. Someone should’ve taught you.”

“ _You_ could’ve.”

“I was—”

“With Mary.”

Arthur swallowed again, harshly. “Yeah. I was.” He itched at his forehead. “ _Shit_. We all kind of failed you, didn’t we, kid?”

John shrugged. “I mean . . . I’m alive, ain’t I? I had food in my belly, had a tent over my head . . . Y’all never made me go without.” He rubbed his thumb against the bottle, wiping away the perspiration. “I . . . Never thanked y’all for that.”

“For what? Being kind?”

“For makin’ me feel like I belong in a family.”

Arthur chugged the rest of his beer, before he motioned for the bartender to give him another one. “Well . . . we discussed earlier why that couldn’t be true,” he murmured. “I was a dick to ya—”

“—Still didn’t hit me,” John pointed out, “Nor beat me ‘till I was unconscious.” John took another gulp of booze, enjoying the way it slid down his throat. They both remained still for a moment, before Arthur ordered some stew from the bartender. Only once the bowls were placed in front of them and they began to eat did either of them speak.

“. . . If I’m gonna be honest with ya,” Arthur murmured, “ _Despite_ how I treated ya . . . you are family. Hosea an’ Dutch an’ Miss Grimshaw . . .” He waved a hand. “Damn it. I ain’t good at this sort of thing.”

John laughed. “Neither am I, if I’m being completely honest.” The spoon scrapped the bottom of the bowl, and his stomach growled loudly. “Glad we had this talk, Arthur.”

Arthur shook his head. “Wasn’t much of a talk.”

“Oh? Then what do you call it?”

“Two idiots yammering at each other,” Arthur said, raising the bottle and clinking the necks together. “Not going anywhere!”

John laughed. “Well . . . neither one of us are very well adverse in conversation.” John settled back in his chair. “Wish that at least one of us got that from Dutch.”

“We ain’t his sons.”

John gave a shrug. “I guess we’re close enough.” He folded an arm across the bar top. “Both were young when Dutch and Hosea found us. One of ‘em could’ve taught us somethin’ about speaking. Instead, we’re just a bunch of bumbling buffoons . . .” John rubbed at his eyes. “Why didn’t ya ask Hosea to come on this hunting trip with you?”

Arthur didn’t look up from is stew. “Man’s getting old. Don’t know if his heart would be able t’ take it if we stumbled upon a bear.”

“Hey! That old man still has his reflexes.”

“Yeah, but against a cougar? A wolf? Ain’t risking it. The old man’s the only one who keeps Dutch sane.”

John leaned back in his seat “Anabel would’ve.”

Arthur gave a momentary pause, then nodded. “Yeah . . . yeah, she would’ve.” He took another swig of beer. “She was a good lady.”

“I—” John hiccupped, pressing a curled fist against his chest, “I remember the pies she’d try t’ make. Best damn pies I ever had; I think.” He slouched a bit in his chair, scratching at the space between his eyes. “Shame what happened to her.”

Arthur just nodded in agreement, closing his eyes for a brief moment. Then, he slapped some dollar bills on top of the counter, and tipped his hat to the bartender. “I’m goin’ to bed. Don’t get into any trouble, John.”

John rolled his eyes, and flipped him the bird. “Get goin’, old man.”

Arthur lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and flicked the ashes at him.

John found Arthur with the horses the next morning. John gently rubbed his palm on Pumpkin Seed’s cheek, glancing towards Arthur. The older man must have been out shopping earlier that morning—both Bo and Pumpkin had several new additions to their loadout. John hesitated, before glancing around his horse’s broad head to look over at Arthur. The man was reading through a list, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, before he shoved the list into an inside pocket.

“Ready to go?”

John shrugged. “Long as you are.”

“Right, then.” Arthur mounted his horse; Bo remaining perfectly still. Pumpkin protested a bit as John climbed on, but soon settled down as he directed her to follow Arthur. Once they were far out of sight of the town, John rolled his shoulders and forced himself to relax.

“An odd town,” John murmured.

“Huh?”

“I _said_ , it was an odd town.” John urged Pumpkin forward till they were side by side. Arthur glanced over at John, and shrugged.

“They live in the middle o’ nowhere. We probably seem a little odd when we come int’ town, smellin’ like gun smoke and like we haven’t bathed in weeks.” John arched an eyebrow, but brushed it off.

“Yeah, well, don’t mean I got t’ be all _content_ with it. I mean—they treated us like we was killers.” John’s face flushed of all color when he got a pointed _look_ from Arthur. “Well, they didn’t _know_ we was killers! Even Dutch treats other people more proper than that.”

Arthur shrugged once more. “If you lived out in the middle o’ nowhere, and barely saw anyone outside of your own town, would _you_ trust outsiders?” John frowned. That . . . wasn’t really where he wanted the argument to go! Why’s Arthur playing devil’s advocate? He raised his head, as Arthur continued, “. . . ‘Sides, Dutch gets us in trouble by doing that. He’s a con artist, but he’s been conned before.”

John wasn’t sure what to say to that. While it had been an ongoing joke about Dutch getting them into some sticky situations, John couldn’t remember any times where the man has been conned. Well . . . he was also young, compared to Arthur. The man had been around the others a lot longer than he had . . .

“How you mean?”

Arthur shrugged. “Come on, John. Don’t make me spell it out for ya.” They continued to ride, the wind whipping through the trees. John sat back in the saddle; head tilted up a bit to look at the sky. He thought about it—thought about the things Arthur had mentioned. He didn’t quite understand why Arthur was saying these things—why Arthur had even bothered, if he was being completely honest. He knew the man loved and respected Dutch—hell, they all did. Arthur shouldn’t be so insistent on John leaving, forging his own path, when Arthur himself hadn’t done the same.

And yet . . .

It was like the conversation had jogged his memory—like Arthur knew he had forgotten and decided to just stick a knife in the small gap to try and wiggle it free. It was something he had watched Hosea do many a time while trying to fit the fishing line through a lure. It felt oddly similar

As it so happened, John _did_ remember a time in which the conman got conned. ‘Course, by someone out of the gang that is. John didn’t know how many times he had witnessed Hosea con Dutch into doing something that he didn’t want to do.

They had been staying outside of a town named Nixon, and Dutch had been in contact with a man named Speirs. The few times John had met him, Speirs seemed like a decent enough fellow. Supposedly, even told Dutch they were in the same ‘business’. They had to leave town ‘bout a month or so after that . . .

“Speirs?” It slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself, really. Arthur casted a confused look over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowing together, like John was speaking some strange tongue. So, to clarify, “What you were talkin’ about when you said Dutch got conned. Speirs from Nixon was one.”

“Which one was that?”

“Uh,” John scrunched up his nose. “I dunno. Had a smile that could kill a cat, had Dutch convinced that he was like us.” John scratched at his cheek. “Never really knew what happened with that whole situation. One day Speirs was comin’ to camp with Dutch, next thing I know, I’m havin’ to help Grimshaw and Pearson throw everything in the back of a wagon.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. He took a few quick puffs before replying. “He was a lawman. He managed t’ play Dutch well enough it got him in a prison wagon on the way to Sisika. If it weren’t for Hosea, well . . .”

John just nodded, and stroked a hand through Pumpkin’s mane. A lot of stories could end with ‘if it weren’t for Hosea’. That man was a God send more often than not, and John was nearly positive that if it weren’t for the other man’s calm, collected spirit, they’d all be dead.

The stag slung over Arthur’s shoulder was dripping blood into the snow. John tried his best to keep an eye out for wolves or bears, not really wanting either of them to return to camp with fewer limbs. The stag’s pelt was as black as the night, and John wasn’t surprised that many people apparently wanted it for themselves. He was kind of sad to see it go, that they would be selling it once they got back to town. He kind of wanted it for himself.

It didn’t really matter. With the money they’d make from it, and from the moose pelt strapped to the back of Arthur’s horse, he’d have enough to buy himself a nice coat. Hell, two nice coats, if he was really feeling up for it.

“This really all the huntin’ we’re gonna do?” John asked, watching as Arthur slung the dead stag over Pumpkin’s rump. Arthur just glanced at him over his shoulder. “I just—we traveled all this way—”

“Unless ya plan on stealing a horse on the way down, yeah, this ‘bout all we can carry.”

“What ‘bout some small stuff?” John suggested. “If we’re just gonna sell it, might as well—”

Arthur waved a hand. “Shoot whatever ya want on the way down, I suppose. Won’t bother me none either way.” He promptly mounted Bo. “Just be quick about it. Really don’t need either of us t’ attract anything.”

“Scared of a lil wolf, Morgan?”

The smirk he got in return sent a shiver down John’s spine. “You ever been face t’ face with a wolf, John?” Arthur knew very well that John hadn’t. The closest he’s ever come was a coyote that Arthur had dragged back to camp one night. It had been bigger than he expected—bigger than a dog. Perhaps that’s just the way his mind made him see it, but he was sure it was bigger than a dog.

“Don’t have to ever face a wolf t’ know that they’re nothing t’ be scared—”

A howl broke the near silence, and Pumpkin Seed froze beneath John. Even when he attempted to urge her forward, she did nothing. She remained there, frozen, as bull headed as ever. It was kind of astonishing. While she and John were nowhere near bonded, he had never seen her freeze up in fear like this. Not even in one of the few gunfights they’ve been in.

He turned his head in the direction of the howls, to see a pack of wolves quickly descending through the trees. There was eight of them, at _least._ Arthur cursed under his breath, and John turned his head to see Arthur pulling out his Springfield. John immediately scrambled to pull out his bolt action, not wanting to be entirely useless. Arthur shot him a look. “Get going, John.”

He motioned to his horse. “She ain’t gonna move.” Then, he leveled his rifle, and took a shot. Arthur cursed again, but John was too busy shooting—and missing—at the wolves to pay any more attention. One wolf fell, and John wasn’t so sure if he should celebrate or not, not knowing if it was him who took that one down. Suddenly, Pumpkin seemed to realize what was going on, and reared up. John held tight, and grinned to himself when a wolf fell due to _his_ shot.

He looked down the rifle, searching the area for a sign of any more, and felt slightly disappointed to see that they were all gone already. John gripped the rifle tightly, more than a little disgruntled at the fact that he had been little to no help to Arthur in that moment.

He lowered his rifle, slipping it back into the holster, and looked rather disappointed. Arthur was already dismounting Bo, and heading towards the prone figures of the wolves. Gritting his teeth, John climbed down as well, and hitched his horse to a tree, completely untrusting of her at this point.

He shuffled towards Arthur, and fingered the handle of his knife in his pocket. Arthur skinned the wolves in clean motions, and handed the rolled-up furs to John without a second thought. John was lost in thought when he heard Arthur speak up. John blinked, but didn’t say anything. When he saw Arthur’s expectant gaze, he replied with a, “Huh?”

“I _said_ , if ya got something to say, then say it. No need to keep looking at me like that.”

John bit the inside of his cheek, and shook his head. “Nothin’. Just my ugly mug.” Arthur made a sound like he didn’t believe him, and John honestly wouldn’t have believed himself, either. He was a pitiful liar.

John shifted on his feet and moved with Arthur when he went to the next carcass. He sniffed, and held in a sneeze, as Arthur murmured, “You did good, John.”

John scowled. “Uh huh.” Arthur handed John another pelt. “What makes you say that?”

Arthur shrugged. “Held your ground, actually managed to take down quite a few of these beasts,” he said, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at the remaining wolves. “Maybe you’re a better hunter than I give you credit for.”

John wasn’t quite so sure about that. He knew quite well most of these pelts wouldn’t sell for much—at least, the ones he killed. Nevertheless, Arthur continued on and didn’t seem bothered at all by John’s silence. Once the last wolf was skinned, they headed back to their horses. He was putting the last couple of pelts on the back of Pumpkin Seed, watching out of the corner of his eye as Arthur reloaded his Springfield. Startled, he realized Arthur only added two more bullets.

Maple was only slighter bigger of a town than Banshee. Arthur told him not to get too attached or create any plans—they’d be selling their shit, then move on. John swallowed and ran a hand through the black stag’s soft fur, already thinking about the ‘what could have been’. John shot a glance at Arthur, to see that the man was far to busy speaking to the trapper to notice. The corner of John’s mouth twitched, and he brushed up by Arthur, murmuring, “Gonna get supplies for the trip home,” before he headed to the general store. Arthur didn’t call out nor stop him, so he took it as a win.

It had been a few weeks since they returned from their hunting trip. Some things had changed, although John wasn’t quite so sure if they were for the better. Arthur was kinder, sure—offered to take him out of camp more often than not, which in and of itself was a surprise. Certainly, caught the sights of the other gang members, but they did nothing than smile and say something about how it was good the two of them were getting along.

John was laying on the ground outside of his tent with a hand over his eyes when a dark figure came over him. He cracked an eye open to see Morgan’s form, but before he could question anything further, something thick and heavy was dropped on top of him. Abruptly, he sat up, spluttering and coughing as he uncovered his face, pausing only to blind in surprise.

It was the black stag pelt, now molded into the shape of a blanket. It was still thick and soft; it felt the same way it did that day. John, not knowing what to say, looked up at Arthur, eyebrows furrowing together.

“It’s gonna get cold here, soon,” Arthur replied with a grunt.

“Yeah,” John replied, still giving him a confused look.

Arthur just shrugged, and waved a hand. “Trapper offered to make it for free. Don’t act like it’s a big deal, John.”

“Sure.”

As Arthur walked away, and John continued to run his hands over the blanket, he realized he forgot to tell him ‘thank you’.


End file.
